I’m horrified that I arrived home with the excitement of a girl holding the secret to the perfect movie, and all the action to surfeit disclosure depended on me inserting this disk dohickee into the greedy, hungry slot of the extraexperimental machine beneath my TV in a wooden slot:it lives there. When I sung out in chords never received by the ambience of our little homepad the safe arrival of my jewel to my cohort in life he sung back in a b flat tenor: we saw that movie. I try to recall the plot (twists?) or god it sucked asscubes, but the medication for my migraines, though I stopped it a week ago, still not only keeps my shit out of my ass stupid it also has a lagging effect of making it deeper too.
Not even my dog can pull me out of this fast enough, Miraculax?